More butch than a silverback gorilla on steroids
by snarkyauthor
Summary: Drabbles from Tumblr and LJ. Genres range from crack, to fluff, to angst, to kink meme fills, to blink-and-you-miss-it AUs. You have been warned.
1. Crowley, on losing Aziraphale to Heaven

You know that feeling when you meet someone, and they reach into your chest and touch a fragile, intricate, blown-glass part of you that no one has ever even _seen_? Their fingers skim it, and they're _very _careful and you're afraid they'll break it but then they just smile and the fear doesn't_ matter_ anymore? And so you can't help but let them curl their fingers around it because they're so wonderful and careful and it feels so_ safe_ and like everything is all right, but -

Then they're torn away from you, so suddenly, and their hand is _**ripped**_ out of you before they can let go, and so they take_ that _part of you with them. And you're left just gasping in pain, because you may have been hurt before, but it's _never_ hurt _this_ much. And you know it's not their fault they were torn away, but it still _hurts._

So the waters rush into that hole, and you slowly close up the outside, keeping them in because _something_ in there is better than nothing, especially after _that_ part of you is gone. And those waters will never replace it, but if that person got torn away, and if they'll never be able to come back… it'll be OK. 'cause hopefully they still have that part of you, even if you don't, anymore. And it'll get better with time, it really will. Because that water-filled part of you, inside, will always ache with loss, but maybe… _maybe_ someday that person will return, and it'll all be all right, again.

: : :

_This is the premise for "Blown Glass."_


	2. Demons will stoop to anything

Ligur was a bubbling, melting puddle on the floor, and Hastur - upon whom not so much as a drop of holy water had landed - stared, aghast, at Crowley.

"You - You_ bastard_! What'd he ever do to _you_?" Crowley stared evenly back at him.

"He got in the way." Hastur felt his mouth drop open, then closed it, blinking at the other demon before his face contorted in rage.

"You lying _snake_! You didn't have to - "

"Didn't I?" Crowley strode over to him in measured, elegant steps, and Hastur eyed the spray bottle in his hand. When he looked up, again, Crowley was standing right before him, those damned flashy sunglasses unable to hide his grim smirk. So Hastur cuffed the other demon on the side of his head, _hard_, and _just_ enough to knock those glasses away. Hastur took advantage of the shock of the blow to fist a hand in the collar of the snake's expensive suit and drag him up to eye-level, seething.

"You're going to get taken to the bloody _cleaners_, pal." Crowley grinned up at him, lop-sided and looking just on the wrong side of sanity.

"So long as _you're_ the one doing it, I think I could manage." Hastur didn't really have time to react as Crowley surged up and kissed him.

Ligur was still just a puddle on the floor. Unfortunately, he was _also_ still sentient.

(Or, rather, _fortunately_, given the fact he was a demon and taking a shameless pleasure in voyeurism was sort of one of the perks.)

And what Ligur _saw_ was Crowley kissing the holy hell out of Hastur.

Right before he pumped him full of holy water. And _ran_.

(Well, the first part had been sort of kinky, the Ligur-puddle thought, trying to flow surreptitiously towards the bubbling, melting puddle of Hastur which had joined him on Crowley's office-room floor.)


	3. The Gavotte

"Come now, dear, it's not that difficult." Crowley shot him a Look from across the dance floor, the demon's hands on his hips. Aziraphale sent him an indulgent, encouraging smile, hands raising to the dance's first position, again. "Let's try again, shall we?"

The demon muttered under his breath about the dance having no rhythm at _all_, but followed suit, his own arms lifting in a perfect mirror image of Aziraphale's. He took a breath, staring straight ahead at the angel and with a smile Aziraphale restarted the music.

Aziraphale moved comfortably, gracefully - like this was the dance he'd been _born_ doing. Crowley, while talented at all manner of dances like the tango, and the salsa, and _especially_ that hip new thing started by the younger crowd (which just basically involved jumping along to a beat), was having rather more trouble.

Aziraphale's limbs followed the elusive beat of the music precisely, little flecks of movement around his wrists and ankles flowing like oil over water. He was _masterful_. Crowley, on the other hand, had trouble even hearing the beat in his head, as the music had no percussion to speak of. He soldiered on, even though his own movements were decidedly jerky and overly controlled as he tried to remember all the little steps and turns of the dance.

Aziraphale patiently ignored the demon's (palpable) growing frustration as it seemed Crowley was _really_ trying. Soon enough, though, it all finally culminated in the demon throwing up his hands with an irritated shout, and Aziraphale let his own arms fall, the music blinking out. Crowley was flailing his arms about in sharp, pointed motions, storming back and forth across the studio floor and _ranting_. Aziraphale smiled quietly to himself and approached him, hands unerringly catching the demon's own. Crowley paused long enough for Aziraphale to lean up and kiss his cheek, with a warm murmur.

"Thank you, darling." Crowley sputtered, struggling, but Aziraphale drew him close, into a firm hug, the demon's chin pressing into his shoulder.

"What are you - I was bloody _rotten_ at it, angel, don't even - "

"I know." There was a bit of gentle amusement in that, and Aziraphale held Crowley just a bit tighter. "But thank you for trying." After a moment, Aziraphale felt more than saw Crowley slump against him, the demon's hands sliding to rest tentatively on his hips.

"Yeah, well. …Dinner?" Aziraphale laughed softly in his ear, but was unwilling to let go, just yet.

"Dinner sounds lovely."


	4. 2002, June

It was a dark and stormy night.

Perhaps it was the kind of night Mary Shelley might write Frankenstein in, or the kind of night H. P. Lovecraft really got down with his inspiration.

It was not, however, _terribly_ dark and stormy. Those writers just had overactive imaginations, you see. (Or were, perhaps, just a _tad_ too fond of certain hallucinogenic substances.) Because, while it was certainly night out (likely past ten) - and thus dark - and while it was certainly _raining_ - and thus stormy - it couldn't really be called the kind of night that inspired horror. After all, no electricity had gone out, no wires were swaying in a hurricane-like wind, and there _certainly_ was no moaning and groaning of the trees and buildings which would have stood against aforementioned (nonexistent though it might be) wind.

This was the kind of quintessential 'dark and stormy night' that romantically-minded people with warm places to nestle and fond people to nestle _with_ often claimed as their own. This was the kind of night where two old friends would curl up under a large tartan blanket on an old, uncomfortable couch (armed with pillows to offset that uncomfortability, mind) and quietly sip cocoa as - instead of getting drunk or arguing about philosophy, music, art or literature - they watched telly.

Well, _Aziraphale_ was sipping cocoa, anyway. He strongly suspected Crowley's had found itself to be something a bit more alcoholic, quite a few hours ago. The demon was still nursing said drink, arm propped over the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale's shoulders. Aziraphale's feet were propped up on a tattered footrest that had seen better centuries. Crowley, predictably, was curled up completely under the blanket but for that one arm, pressing against Aziraphale's side as though to steal warmth, his knees digging into Aziraphale's thigh. But it was comfortable, and warm, and quite nice, really.

Aziraphale suspected Crowley might be bored with the show, though. The dear demon kept trying to nuzzle into his neck, and Aziraphale had to shift his shoulder gently to put him off. He didn't often indulge in telly, but when he did The History Channel often provided an interesting take on the events he'd been alive for. It was quite charming to see how the humans painted over what had really happened. Often how the decisions had _really_ been made changed depending on the lens one looked through, the reasoning one assumed had gone on, or that other facts (once so important) had been lost to time, entirely. After yet another such attempt to nuzzle past his turtleneck (sometime after eleven, now, and Aziraphale had lost count of the attempts before then), Aziraphale looked at the demon out of the corner of his eye with a slight puzzled frown. Crowley gazed up at him with wide, innocent snakelike eyes.

The telly played on in the background, but its volume slid down a little. Aziraphale sighed.

"Really, dear. You've been antsy all night. What is it." Crowley cocked his head, the fake-innocent look dropping as his eyes flicked back-and-forth over Aziraphale's face.

"You can't figure it out?" Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but a sharp grin darted onto Crowley's face, his fingers quickly entangling in the soft waves at the back of Aziraphale's head. Aziraphale caught a breath he didn't need, eyes wide as Crowley leaned in, purring. "C'mon, angel, I know you're not _that_ oblivious." Crowley sneaked closer, eyes glinting, his hand under the blanket slyly insinuating itself under Aziraphale's turtleneck, palm pressing against his stomach. Aziraphale made a small noise, and Crowley's hand pulled his head closer, enabling the demon to lick at his lower lip.

"_Crowley._" He huffed, although it might've sounded a bit breathy. Aziraphale felt the demon grin against the side of his mouth, and sighed, long-sufferingly. Crowley snorted against him.

"Oh, don't _pretend_ you don't want it." Aziraphale made another little sound as that hand on his stomach wandered, Crowley's fingers caressing over the slight pudge there. Aziraphale resisted the urge to squirm under the attention, but the demon took the small gasp that escaped as an invitation and moved in to kiss him properly. The tartan blanket shifted, falling a little bit, pooling around their hips. Aziraphale's eyes fell shut as the heat of Crowley's mouth met his own, hands beginning to move to -

The clock on the mantle chimed quietly, and Aziraphale guessed it must be announcing midnight. Crowley didn't bother with it, though, more concentrated on nosing into Aziraphale's turtleneck and nibbling gently along his throat. Aziraphale tipped his head back, fighting a shiver, right hand lifting to card through Crowley's hair -

_Pain._ Sudden, sharp pain and Aziraphale gasped, trying to shove the demon away but Crowley's hand snatched his right wrist - grip _hard_, and unyielding. The angel took in a startled breath, feeling something _sharp_ - no, _two_ sharp things - slide into his neck and he huffed, shaking his head, trying to pull away, confused and hurting.

"C-_Crowley_, dearest, not _quite_ so - _don't_ - " He winced as the fangs sank in only deeper, resisting the urge to try and shove the dear boy away, again. Crowley'd just got carried away, is all. "That _hurts_, stop…" His vision started to feel fuzzy around the edges and Aziraphale blinked furiously, trying to clear it. After a few moments Crowley drew back, grinning at him in quite… quite an unfamiliar way (well, what he could see of it, anyway.) The demon's face was sliding in and out of focus, and Aziraphale shook his head, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. "You… got a bit… carried… away - is it?" He said foggily, attempting a warm smile, squinting at the demon as though he could see him better if he did that. Crowley laughed, and the sound was as clear as a bell - no, it was worse. It was _piercing_, and Aziraphale winced when he realized Crowley still hadn't let go of his wrist. He tugged on it, faintly, but the demon kept it captive and only leaned in towards him. Up close, Aziraphale could see that that grin was not _kind_.

"6,006 years, 6 months, 6 days, angel." Aziraphale felt a creeping cold realization in the back of his neck - but perhaps that was spreading out from the poison. He stared at Crowley, dumbly, brain slow to process.

"What… You didn't - _Poison_?" His vision blacked out for a moment and Aziraphale shut his eyes, shaking his head again, trying to will it away. Crowley laughed at him, again - this time soft and menacing, intimate.

"Can't shake this one off, Aziraphale. 's designed _especially_ for you." Aziraphale cracked open his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't - his vision was positively _swimming_ in darkness, patches of color where he could see Crowley's eyes and face burning at him, bathed in victorious evil.

"Why - ?" The angel still managed, trying to reach his left hand up, to touch Crowley's cheek. His arm didn't want to listen, the muscle response was slow, sluggish. But Crowley would never… The Crowley he _knew_ would never -

Crowley only sneered at him, yellow vertically-slit eyes fever-bright with the fires of Hell. To Aziraphale, it seemed everything was moving… curiously… slow… His head ached.

"Did you think a demon could _really_ love an angel?" Crowley spat at him, and something wet landed on Aziraphale's cheek. He was numb, he couldn't really register it. Something was… was wrong with his _body_…

"But… _dear_… you - " Aziraphale blinked, but it was a struggle to reopen his eyes, this time. He couldn't focus, couldn't _deal_ with this… not _Crowley_. It had to be… a _mistake_, a_ joke_, of some sort - mind you, a poor one, but…

A mean leer met his fuzzy eyes, blinding as the sun on sand. He couldn't see much beyond that horrible smile, couldn't hear the telly anymore, his ears were ringing but he could still make out Crowley's words as they painted strokes of illumination through the rushing, oncoming darkness.

"6,006 years. If I'd known it'd be _this_ easy to deliver a Principality to Hell in a hand basket, I'd have done this _ages_ ago and not wasted my time."

Something in Aziraphale hurt, very much, as the poison at last won out over his depleted faculties. The last thing he saw before being washed in blessed, unconscious oblivion, was Crowley's damned grin, imprinted on the back of his eyelids and destined to haunt every waking moment yet to come, in Hell.

: : :

That image would feed the urge for revenge once he was a demon, but Aziraphale didn't know that, couldn't _imagine_ that, right now. It would take years to strip away what he'd been and make him what he'd forever after _be_. But the time - and transformation - would go much faster once the sadness had been burned out of him, replaced by unbridled rage and hate at Duke Crowley for making him Fall.

It wouldn't be anger for 'betraying his trust', by then.

Demons didn't make a habit of trusting each other, after all.

(That was something only angels did.)


End file.
